Greek School Children on a Kylix

Look at this cup. LOOK AT IT.

Pretty neat huh? This is a kylix, a Greek drinking cup (460 BCE) crafted with meticulous skill and dedication. Because pottery is mundane, our ancestors often depicted everyday scenes when decorating such containers. We can see that this specimen portrays an instructor with his two pupils in some sort of class; simple enough right? Many wouldn’t give this image a passing glance, but I’m fascinated by education and feel this kylix has a lot to say. Let’s dive in!

What does it say about ancient Greek culture that purely functional objects, such as vases and cups, were decorated so carefully and with such attention to detail?

Would it be too lazy to attribute it to a superior work ethic and pride in one’s creation? Perhaps not, but that must only be a part of it. I previously discussed during my Lascaux blog how art has long been felt to hold almost magical qualities and its use was generally more practical than “artistic.” In the same way we hesitate to stab a picture of our loved ones, we feel a depiction’s integrity can power the object it’s representing. I doubt many classical Greeks still consciously believed this to be the case, but the worry may still manifest itself in art, and pottery would have been a prime outlet. The artist here wanted the pottery to reinforce the utilitarian use it would be serving, so it was imperative that the image came out clear, correct, and beautiful in its representation. This would fall in line with the treatment of similar creations in other advanced cultures.

But is there a purely Greek touch here? I think so. I’ve seen a good amount of art from different cultures up to the 5^th century. In all of them the general tone is of heroism, military conquest, divine favors, etc. Rarely do I see scenes from everyday life on their own. Egypt comes close, but a picture of students and master would be different; the master much more old and wise, as if to stress tradition rather than education. Only in Greece can a classroom consist of only a few bodies, of equal age, of humble gestures. It is the act of education, of humanity at its focus, which makes Greece unique.

How does the decoration on this Greek kylix compare to the decorations on similar items in our culture, such as drinking glasses, plates, and water bottles? Do you believe the Greeks spent more or less time decorating these items than we do? Why?

Stuff today is decorated for two reasons: merchandizing or aesthetic appeal. We mass produce that junk and use/destroy such containers liberally. It would be a waste to individually enhance each one, unless it’s for prestige, like displaying wealth or something. This is because we view and construct these items differently from the Greeks, so our treatment of them is incompatible. As for who’s spent more time, well, combined time is probably us, but individual time is probably them. Don’t get me wrong, pottery, weapons, and other materials were massed produced in the ancient world as well, but today that term takes on an entirely different meaning.

What can you infer about the relationship between the teacher and the students on this drinking cup, and, by extension, the ideal relationship between teachers and students in ancient Greece? Why is the teacher seated? Why does he carry a staff or walking stick even when seated?

Clearly the two students are deferring to their teacher. As the former stand at attention, the latter sits at ease, displaying the sense of respect pupils have, and should have, for their master. The teacher even holds a staff. Being so young this staff is not meant to help him walk, but acts as a symbol of power, almost like a scepter. I don’t know what the students are holding, but whatever it is they seem to be presenting it for inspection. He is there to teach and educate them, as they are here to learn.

And so we have a classical example of the master-pupil dynamic. Anyone with knowledge (no matter their age, sex, race, whatever) holds power over those who do not have such knowledge. The opportunity to learn is a blessing we cannot undervalue, demonstrated by the eager readiness of the students. But there is also something sinister. The relationship is centered on power: the teacher asserts his dominance through a symbolic item, and relaxes in comfort while the students serve as subjects. True, they gain education and therefore power by learning from him and completing the master’s assignments, but they also inherit their educator’s idiocies, presumptions, and ideas. If such ideas accept the pre-existing structure of society it can prevent progression. This is an irony of education: without it culture and science stagnates, but with it, tradition and power structures become institutionalized.

Do the positions of the figures suggest any attitudes on the part of the characters?

Again, the lax body posture of the teacher suggests his comfort, probably due to his position of power. The strict tension of the students suggest their eagerness to learn. Another interpretation: the master is weighed down by knowledge, and the pupils are still light and carefree in their ignorance.

What can we interpret from the items that each of the boys is carrying: a rolled-up scroll and a writing tablet? What kinds of subjects would these kinds of tools have been appropriate for?

Ah, so that’s what they’re carrying. They must be studying reading and writing, unless Greeks were taught mathematics? Ugh, I forget what was on a classical curriculum. Either way, this drives home the lesson that the power of education begins with literacy.

Why do you think that the teacher is shown as being roughly the same age as the students? If this image is representative of education at the time, what might it suggest about the qualifications for being a teacher? Compare this image with other cultural traditions in which teachers are depicted as older (and presumably wiser) than students. 

This is only a question because of the expectation that a teacher is a “wise old man with a beard” who sagely educates the youth and passes the great secrets of culture to the new generation. The Greek kylix, mocking such idiocy, shows the only true qualification of an educator: knowledge. (Well, and an ability to transmit that knowledge, but let’s forget that for now.) Education is an equalizer. Anyone of any age, any race, any sex, any religious background, or any class can learn. The wisdom gained from such learning is both liberating and self-powering, granting new opportunities to all who drink its nectar. While age and experience are a form of education, we realize that “just because a man is old and has a beard doesn’t mean he’s wise.” Instead, it is in the ancient pool of knowledge that we owe our respect. It is the meticulous accumulation of information and culture, as well as its transmission, that gives our lives real agency. Not a bad lesson from a mere drinking cup.

The Papyrus of Ani

I’ve always wanted to read the ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead, but it’s a little too prosaic to count as literature. A guidebook for religious rituals, the text comes off as more tedious than insightful. But there’s one specific and spectacular part of the work that demands examination: The Papyrus of Ani. More than seventy-eight feet long, it depicts the judgment of a royal scribe named Ani by the Egyptian pantheon. He is required to make a “Negative Confession,” while his heart is weighed against a feather for purity. The scene, and confession:

1. I have not committed sin.
2. I have not committed robbery with violence.
3. I have not stolen.
4. I have not slain men and women.
5. I have not stolen grain.
6. I have not purloined offerings.
7. I have not stolen the property of God.
8. I have not uttered lies.
9. I have not carried away food.
10. I have not uttered curses.

11. I have not committed adultery, I have not lain with men.
12. I have made none to weep.
13. I have not eaten the heart.
14. I have not attacked any man.
15. I am not a man of deceit.
16. I have not stolen cultivated land.
17. I have not been an eavesdropper.
18. I have not slandered.
19. I have not been angry without just cause.
20. I have not debauched the wife of any man.

21. I have not debauched the wife of any man.
22. I have not polluted myself.
23. I have terrorized none.
24. I have not transgressed the law.
25. I have not been wroth.
26. I have not shut my ears to the words of truth.
27. I have not blasphemed.
28. I am not a man of violence.
29. I have not been a stirrer up of strife.
30. I have not acted with undue haste.
31. I have not pried into matters.
32. I have not multiplied my words in speaking.

33. I have wronged none, I have done no evil.
34. I have not worked witchcraft against the king.
35. I have never stopped the flow of water.
36. I have never raised my voice.
37. I have not cursed God. 

38. I have not acted with arrogance.
39. I have not stolen the bread of the gods.
40. I have not carried away the khenfu cakes from the Spirits of the dead.
41. I have not snatched away the bread of the child, nor treated with contempt the god of my city.
42. I have not slain the cattle belonging to the god.

What is the Text saying about Law and Government?

Why is the judgment of Ani portrayed as the weighing of his heart? What metaphors used in Western culture today are suggested by this portrayal? Why does Ani’s heart need only to balance, and not tip, the scale?

If I recall ancient science correctly, doctors believed the mind and personality, and therefore soul, resided in the heart. So one’s conscience, which recorded your bad deeds, was etched and lingered in that organ. So in this scene, a “heavy heart” suggested one filled with guilty deeds, while a “light heart” was empty of such contamination. This concept still exists today in the metaphor of the “heavy heart” or “guilty conscience.” Indeed, the scale was also passed down to us, and is held by blind Justice. As for why the heart must balance with the feather, I imagine it was the expectation that no one is “perfect,” ie, lighter than a feather. So one must have performed only a minimum of bad deeds, so they are as heavy as, but not heavier than, the feather of JUSTICE.

Why is the judgment scene so public? What about the nature of justice is suggested by a public, rather than a private, judicial accounting?

The process of justice is handled by the State, and not on a lex talionis basis; so law is a public, not private, code. They are not designed to protect any one specific individual, but all individuals within a community. Ergo breaking a law is an offense to the entire community, and not just to the violated party.

Also, in Ancient Egypt, and many similar civilizations, laws come from a government which is divinely sanctioned, therefore law is divinely protected. When one breaks the law then, they also offend the Gods, and are subject to their punishment. It’s also true that when one breaks the law the Gods are offended at the entire community, not just the individual (this was true with the Greeks and Hebrews, and I assume it was the same in Egypt). So a criminal put the entire society at stake, and must be publically judged and punished to answer for their crime. This public process can then be seen as a sort of purging ritual, in which the violations of the individual are recorded for their personal fate, but also for the community as a whole. It helps paint the moral climate of the society, and lets the group address issues openly.

Why are all of the statements that Ani must make to justify himself negative statements, or statements of what he did not do? Why does he not state the good things that he has done? What might be implied here about the nature and limits of judicial proceedings?

What a fantastic question. There’s a pragmatic answer, and an ethical one. For the former, because humans have free will, laws can at best limit your actions. It is very difficult to insist (or demand) specific behavior, because of the difficulty of carrying these demands out: “The law states you are to piously pray three times a day, and you only prayed twice yesterday. I sentence you to death.” The arbitration and police force necessary to enforce these laws are humongous, and so compromises must be made. The law therefore draws lines in the sand, and acts as a policing agent protecting those boundaries. It’s difficult enough to prevent people from doing specific things, let alone enforcing them to do specific things, and so administrations must have denied their citizens certain poisonous actions that harmed the greater community, and deemed all other action as lawful. (I will ignore judicial theory in free countries and the use of taboo, because they are more complex than the question allows.) Today we have a robust enough government where we can enforce actions (“wear your seatbelt!”) but these are more viewed in terms of violations of safety, ergo negativity, than a positive action.

                                             

The more abstract, ethical reason is that “to do good” is expected of you. We are meant to be good people, and so one does not receive a reward for good deeds. We are instead punished if we do not complete good deeds, or, put another way, commit bad ones. It is our wrongful actions that are to be punished, and we only receive reward if we have committed none. But perhaps this is inaccurate. Instead, maybe the papyrus is suggesting that good is purely superfluous, and our natural state is ethical neutrality, and it is only our bad actions that can condemn us. Salvation or damnation is portrayed here in terms of law breaking or keeping, and not as an evaluation of actions.

In short, the judgment of Ani reveals the limitation of law and government: they cannot enforce “ethical” behavior, so much as hold punishment for actions detrimental to the community. Today we know that ethics is a dynamic and subjective system, but the ancient Egyptians probably didn’t view it as such. Instead, they acknowledged the practical limitations of law, and instead focused on what we should *not* do, versus what we should. From this we learn that law may be derived from morality, but is still mutually exclusive to it.  

What facts about ancient Egyptian culture can you infer from this view of justice, the gods, and the afterlife? How might you apply this same logic to another, perhaps contemporary culture?

The kind of confidence and reliance the Egyptians put on their religious pantheon for dispensing justice shows how important it is to them and how seriously they take law. Not to be left in mortal hands, judgment comes from above. Also important is getting into the afterlife. Our mortal life is mostly a stage in which we are tempted and challenged, and our ability to meet that challenge decides who is allowed into heaven, and who is discarded. This view is perfectly mirrored in Judeo-Christen religions, of which the ancient Egyptian religion was a significant contributor, probably from their time in that land. From the Egyptians to the Hebrews, to the Christians, to Rome and Europe, and then finally, to America, it is where our cultural beliefs regarding law, justice, and the afterlife all come from (among many other things, of course).

La Grotte de Lascaux: "The Shaft of the Dead Man"

  

For most of our history, our race wasn’t human. Before civilization, before self-awareness, we were just another beast on the African savannah, hunting our prey and trying to survive. We didn’t ask dangerous questions or seek their answers; we didn’t have power, or luxuries, or comprehension. Somewhere along the way from there and now, we gained those properties. We looked up at the stars and wondered. We hugged a dead antelope and felt a mixture of appreciation and regret. We worshiped something greater than ourselves. We grew, not in numbers, but in depth. At some point in our history, we became human, and art was invented.

Because of its preserving nature, and the maturity of our intellect, we have tons of artistic property from the dawn of civilization (particularly from 3,000 BCE and on). But these new, “civilized” animals are too like us; their problems are our problems, and their worries our worries. By studying them we learn too much about ourselves. It’s the art from pre-agricultural societies that can give us profound insight on the fundamentals of our psychology, philosophy, and religion. These “humans,” existing in the shadowy realm between man and beast, are the link to our more feral past. The problem is that pre-Neolithic Revolution art is so scarce, and often simple. That’s why the cave paintings at the Lascaux caves are so damn precious.

Discovered in France in 1940 by some teenagers, the grotto contains the most outstanding displays of prehistoric art ever discovered. 250 feet of masterful illustrations, meticulously worked in cramped conditions, these galleries necessitated substantial resources and time to complete; all for no apparent practical advantage. Can one assume religious rituals? Or perhaps an explosion of creative talent? Did these cavemen and cavewomen have something to say, something to show, or something to explore? I don’t know, but we can sure guess.

 

My favorite picture is the great black bull, or Auroch: massive, majestic, and now extinct. One can imagine him running with his herd, early homo sapient watching from the foliage, in part hoping to catch and kill the titan for food, another part awed by its power and grace. This inner conflict—the murder of glorious life—is represented by the painting of his eye. So many of the Lascaux critters don’t have faces or eyes, which to me signifies abstraction. The detail of the eye in the bull suggests a connection and confrontation significant enough the artist depicted it in his painting. And what is the bull communicating? What can we deduce? It seems to me that the Auroch’s glare is accusatory, somewhat sad, and probing:

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? Why? Are we not brothers? No, I suppose were not. You’ve become…different. You’re no longer like us. You’ve changed. You love me, but you need to kill me to survive. How must that feel—to kill that which you love. To kill your brothers. To be self-aware. To be different. To be alone in a world of life.”

How heavily this must have weighed on our early minds. Which brings me to another work; perhaps the strangest of all Lascaux art: “Shaft of the Dead Man.”

Understanding the Text

Study the picture for a moment. What do you see? A seeming human, but with a bird’s head? Being run over by a bison? Is that a crane below them? Or a bird staff? Is that a rhino running away from the scene? What the hell is going on! Let’s analyze it a bit, shall we?

Why does the human figure have a human head? What does this combination suggest about the culture that produced this scene? 

When I see the unison of man and animal, I think of wish fulfillment. So the character is drawn as part bird to reconcile the growing separation between the human and animal world. Or the bird head is a mask the character dons to interact/communicate with other beasts. So either the culture sees themselves as part animal, or wants to be, and this manifests in the bird-human hybrid depicted here. 

Why is the human figure disproportionately large compared to the bison? What kind of relationship between humans and the natural world does the painting suggest?

Size usually equals power. I think the height of the bird character is an assertion of human dominance in the natural order; the bison is, after all, charging down and killing him. This is a violent scene, with the destruction of human life and perhaps the disembowelment of the bison, while the rhino flees the scene in terror. There seems to be recognition that humans are climbing higher on the food chain, and are attempting mastery over the other animals. But this control is not complete, and the bison challenges and even succeeds in resisting human power.

But maybe not. Maybe the human is simply trying to become an equal to the bison and rhino, greeting them as fellow animals, and is rejected. The former attacks him, while the latter runs. Do we see the enactment of exile from the natural order? The Lascaux paintings are dated around 17,000-13,000 BCE, which is relatively late in our development. Is this the last attempt at integration with the animal kingdom? Is our failure here a catalyst for civilization? It’s an enticing thought.

Some have suggested that the figure in the drawing is a religious shaman who is in a dreamlike trance. Is this a plausible interpretation of the painting? If so, should the other animals be read literally or symbolically?

The odd bird totem below the bird figure seems strong evidence for shamanism. Whether or not they’re in a “dreamlike trance” is debatable; the proximity of the bison seems to suggest a physical, not mental interaction. But the meta-context of the scene—on a wall in the dark recesses of a cave structure—argue for evocation. What in the world were these painters doing down here? Why go through all the trouble and danger of creating these galleries? What need did it serve? If we claim these animals are to be taken literally, as mere replications of reality, we ignore the role of art in our own world. Surely we have to see at least some of the paintings as symbolic. Symbolic of what is again guess work. Fertility rituals? Early Gods? The “other?”  

Looking at the galleries together, there is movement here, and narrative. Is the world depicted overwhelming the growing consciousness of man? Is the shaman trying to cope with this expanding reality and finds himself outmatched? From the scarcity of homo sapiens represented at Lascaux, this seems plausible. For the first time, man views his world through an artistic lens. He is part of a bigger picture, and struggles to find his place in it.

Based on the available evidence, what do you believe was the purpose of the cave art at Lascaux? What facts support your interpretation? How might this interpretation account for “The Shaft of the Dead Man?”

Well, I see a practical reason, and then a more abstract one. Ostensibly I think the caves were used for religious/shamanistic rituals, mostly likely for animal/human fertility. This would justify the time and resources poured initially into the endeavor, as the participants probably hoped for concrete returns on such an investment. My evidence for this is the frequency of fertility rituals among tribal peoples, and the large density of animal life depicted compared to humans. Beyond this reasoning, however, I would bet that early man found this kind of artistic work therapeutic and fulfilling. Soon people found painting/crafting useful for working through inner emotions that have no other outlet; in addition to telling stories and making sense of the world. Lascaux represents the torrent of growing human consciousness that must have developed from our burgeoning psychologies.

As far as “The Shaft of the Dead Man” is concerned, this work is one such instance of that consciousness. The complexity and strangeness of the scene is oozing with profound texture; I may not completely understand why the artist created it, but I can feel its echoes across time. Drawing yourself as a dead entity is a level of self-awareness that no other organism has yet matched. The harmony of the galleries, the amount of life and vibrancy it depicts, seems at such odds with the awkward and assaulted bird man above. In this mural of life, we do not belong.

The Deep

I had a dream.

Everyone I knew was at the beach, slashing around in the water by the shore. We all were having a good time and didn’t seem to have any place to go. Enjoying the waves, we talked, laughed, kissed, jumped, danced, cried, wrestled, loved, and every other verb imaginable. It was a cosmic party where nothing else mattered, and that was fine. We didn’t go on land or into the ocean—the land was barren and the ocean alien—we just expanded infinitely across the shore. It was our time, our lives, our beach.

I was happy. I could have lived the rest of my life and called myself fulfilled. But I had this defect, minor, but gnawing. I was oddly and innocently curious about the vast ocean. Its placid, infinite expanse juxtaposing our breaking waves, it seemed so boring and yet…inviting. What was out there? Why had no one ever gone? Would it be more fun? Terminal, dangerous, innocuous questions filled my breast. Yes, I thought, I will go out into the deep.

I broke from the pack and began swimming out to sea. Background noise filled my head; “Where are you going? There’s nothing out there! You’re wasting your time, come back here and play with us!” Indeed. But first I will quench my thirst and see what’s out there. Afterwards I will return and tell everyone all about it; they will be so glad to hear of it I’m sure. But after a few hours of swimming out into the ocean I realized there was nothing here, just desolate wasteland (and the unbroken silence of modest mystery). No people, no action, and no fun. Disappointed, but not overly so, I began to turn back when a strange thought came to me. I know not where it came, but it lingered there in my mind; intrusive, insisting. Go down, it said. Go into the deep.

So, down I swam.

And I could not handle what I saw. 

Under the surface lay an endless expanse of color and movement. Miles of coral reef littered the ocean floor, with the rainbow’s spectrum at its disposal. Blues, greens, oranges, reds, yellows, pinks; I was overwhelmed by the display. And all around swam fish of dazzling color—playing, talking, laughing, kissing, jumping, dancing, crying, wrestling, loving, and every other verb imaginable (as well as some unimaginable). There was life here, action, and fun. But the beauty was completely disproportionate to what I had experienced with my friends on the shore. It was as if my eyes had been fogged before and now they were clear. In this depth was an intensity which permeated my senses; it seemed to borrow into my very core and nestle there. Just watching I felt invigorated. I couldn’t wait to actually swim down and play among my new friends.

I began to go down and swim deeper and deeper, trying to reach this new haven. But after a few minutes I grew tired and I couldn’t breathe. I realized I wouldn’t be able to make it, and returned to the surface. I needed to be stronger, more tenacious, to reach this wonder. But how? How would I get to the deep? Dawning comprehension: I must make myself a better swimmer. And so, every day from then on, I pushed myself to improve myself. Staying out in the ocean to avoid distractions, I swam for miles to increase my stamina. I would dive persistently to increase my breathing capacity. I talked to myself to increase confidence (You can do it! I know you can!) I glimpsed that depth from time to time to remind me of what I stood to gain. Form, strength, breathing; I heighted them all. It was hard, painfully so, and the most difficult thing I had ever done. In fact, it was the only difficult thing I had ever done. But I was determined, and that held me through. Within months I was in the best shape of my life. And, strangely, I felt great. I had not even reached my prize but already I was content. Why? How could being miserable bring one happiness? I didn’t linger on this thought, but again attempted to reach the sea floor. As before, I was determined to succeed.

I swam down, faster and harder than I had ever swam before. Within minutes I reached the reefs. Up close, it was even more majestic, and the palette of vibrant life more profound. The fish, crowding around me, invited me among there people. They were in fact lonely, funny enough, and were glad to have some company. They taught me their ways (such as how to never need air or how to swim effortlessly) and showed me wonders beyond description. The reefs and ecosystems were, unbelievably, just the beginning. Beyond this expanse lay many more, all more awesome and empowering than the last.

Down in the deep I, at first, practiced all my verbs, but they soon took new forms. Laughing, or crying, or dancing, were different down here. They had meaning somehow; some lasting impact on my soul. While I was enjoying life more than I had ever thought possible, it wasn’t just euphoric, or fulfilling. It was actually changing who I was. This happiness was growing inside of me. Sometimes it was painful, sometimes it was fun, but always, it was powerful. I became self-conscious of this change. It was frightening and enticing at the same time.

Despite these wonders, I grew lonely too. I wanted to be back with my human friends (I was not, after all, a fish), and even bring them down here. With amiable regret, I parted from my new community, my new paradise, and returned to the surface. The endless, placid expanse was ironic to me now. The intriguing mystery was replaced with intriguing understanding, and it tasted sweeter.

I returned to the beach shore and met up with my old comrades. After a loving reunion, I explained to everyone where I had been. Their responses, however, baffled me. “You went where? What’s so special about that? It’s perfectly great here, why would we leave? Better? How can anything be better than this? We have to do what to get there?!? Exercise? That sounds terrible! No thanks man, I’ll just chill here on shore.” It was maddening. They would not believe my story, and when they did, they were disinterested (or entertained) rather than inspired by my tales. I tried to convince them, but to no avail. They did not understand. They needed to see what I saw. They needed to work like I worked. They needed to be curious, and adventures, and discontent. But they weren’t.

I also tried to return to life on the shore, but it was hopeless. The tedious playing, talking, laughing, kissing, jumping, dancing, crying, wrestling, loving, and every other restricted verb was done with a kind of droll, unpolished vigor that seemed just so empty, so barren, so…shallow. I was not happy here anymore. Unable to connect to others, unable to satisfy my lust, I was disconnected. I had isolated myself.

I spent the intervening time alternating between the deep and my beach shore. They were good breaks from each other. But make no mistake, my problem only intensified. I began to despise the shore for its ignorant contentment, while my love of the depth became obsessive. Unfortunately I woke from my dream before this dilemma was resolved, and I’ll never know how it ended. But, perhaps, this is for the best.

Ending a Life

I killed a mouse the other day.

I had just gotten home from the hospital. Turning on the lights as I walked in the door, my eyes adjusted to the change. I was tired and hungry, but also filled with a kind of…disappointment. Against the back door the black silhouette of my dog loomed large; its tail wagged. I couldn’t help but smile. I gave him some fresh water and figured my dad had already handled the food. I should have turned around and headed back to my room, but instead I went outside. I don’t remember why. Suddenly, nearby:

“EET, EET, EET!”

The cry and rustling spooked me. Regaining my wits, I turned on the back light and went towards the noise. There on the ground sat the bucket we fill with food for the dog. And inside the bucket was a mouse.

“EET, EET, EET!”

He was a large mouse, but didn’t seem to be able to jump out of the bucket. Seeing me, he made mad leaps against the side of his prison, to no avail. He was trapped. His chest pumping, he stared at me with wide, terrified eyes. He continued to plead. I made to attack him, to see if driven by fear he could jump out of the bucket. He tried heroically, but could not. I assumed he fell in while trying to grab some dinner. A field mouse from beyond our backyard, no doubt. Did he have a family nearby? Friends? If allowed free, would he return with more? 

I picked up the bucket and brought it into my house, laying it on my bathroom floor. I called my dog over and had him sniff the rodent. Despite the mouse’s panicked spasms, the pooch was unimpressed, and even tried to lick him. Harmless, he concluded. “Good boy”, and sent him off. I stared at my quarry. He was an adorable little guy: grey, robust, and inquisitive even now. He rose on his two back legs and stared right back at me. “EET?” 

“*Sigh*. What am I going to do with you buddy?”

I tip-toed into my parents room and shook my father gently. His eyes popped open. “What?” he said anxiously. “I caught a mouse.” “So?” “It’s alive.” “Alive?” “Alive. What should I do?” “Kill it, and throw it out back.” I tried to protest, but he had fallen back asleep. Heading back into the bathroom I stepped over my dog, who had also nodded off.  Useless, the both of ‘em. I called my mom and probed her for wisdom. 

“Will you explain to God how you killed one of his creatures?” Hanging up the phone, I evaluated my situation. I was all alone.

“EET!” 

No, that’s wasn’t true. I wasn’t alone. There was still the mouse, and we needed to come to terms. I watched him for a long while, debating in my head. At times he seemed to forget about me, and would clean his whiskers, nibble on a bit of dog food, and poop. I couldn’t help but notice how similar we were. 

But the question remained: What to do with him? I first thought of taking him down the street or something, and throwing him in a bush. But would he find his way back? Or would he infest another home? He might even die to some predator. But what other choice do I have? Could I really kill him? Could I really end a life, even a mouse’s life, for simply being inconvenienced? I brought the bucket to my front door with the intent of carrying out my plan, but stopped right as I opened it.

I knew wasn’t being honest with myself. I’ve killed mice before, with traps. I’ve squashed bugs. I’ve caught and eaten fish. I’ve eaten more burgers than I could count. Was I really chickening out now? Was that all I was, a coward who only kills in the abstract? Here in front of me was a life in my power. Would I be a man and do what needs to be done? Or avoid the problem and tell myself I wasn’t already a murderer? I carried the bucket back into my bathroom.

Very well, if I was to kill him, how? Stab him with a knife? Too unsanitary. Squash him? Too bloody. Boil him in water? Too cruel. Well, I thought, if I was going to do the dark deed, I could at least do it with honor. I would kill him with my own hands. The mouse by now had gotten used to me, and would only whine when I got too close. He nibbled away, oblivious.

I couldn’t use my bare hands, so I grabbed a baby-wipe. I tried to reach in the bucket and snatch him, but he immediately jumped on the cloth and attempted to climb up my hand. I dropped it and him, and cursed. Smart sucker. He began playing with the wipe: “EET EET!” Running under and around it, he rubbed his furry coat against the chill cloth. A gift, he must have thought. I quickly grabbed him when he darted underneath it, so I held the mouse in the baby-wipe tight in my hand.

Oddly, he was very placid. He didn’t squirm or squeak. I felt his heart beat in the palm of my hand. He was so small and soft. Cute even. Consistent, measured breaths from his body synchronized with mine. I held him as I would a dove, and we sat a moment, living. To think, the mouse had patiently waited an infinite amount of time to exist. Once born, he enjoyed a difficult, insignificant, and impossibly brief life before infinity bore down on him again. And somehow, in the midst of that mind-boggling time span, we happened to live in the same period together. And across the endless universe, we happened to find each other. It was an encounter against all odds, and nothing like it would ever happen again. In my hand was a miracle as rare as life itself.

I squeezed.

I felt his bones crack. Pinched nerves snapped and healthy organs burst. I clenched as hard as I could and felt his skin rip through the cloth. All the while the mouse didn’t make a sound. But it was done. I put him back in the bucket.

And yet, he lived. His body was collapsed, but somehow his breathing continued. How, I wondered? “You fool”, I thought, “You unbelievable fool. You merely inflicted internal rupturing. Instead of giving him a swift, merciful death, he would now die slowly. Painfully. His last moments of life will be in agonizing pain as darkness descends. That was your gift to him.”

My hand was covered in blood. I turned on the sink to boiling hot and scrubbed my hand. Looking back into the bucket I noticed the mouse had crawled under the baby-wipe. His breathing was slow. “I’m sorry friend. I’m so sorry.” I took the bucket outside and was going to throw him in the bushes when I thought of the maggots and smell. So I instead threw him into our garbage bin with a *clud*. I stared into the dark abyss of the container and heard, faintly, but distinctly, a soft “Eet…”. I closed the bin. 

Now, I noticed, now I was alone.

I washed the bucket out and did some last minute chores. Soon I was done and jumped into bed. Tucking in, I noticed my hand still smelled of rodent. Of blood. Of death. I don’t remember my thoughts before I drifted to sleep and maddening dreams, but I do remember, clear as day, my deep sense of shame. With that, I nodded off.